Contemplation
by CookieCatSU
Summary: Catra has very conflicting emotions about Adora. Or; Catra contemplates, and comes to a new conclusion.
1. Contemplation

She was impossibly small, and vulnerable, and _human_, laid out on the ground as she was, body twisted, contorting in ways which were not natural. She looked broken, pale, and dull. Nothing like the way she looked with the sword in her hands, almost glowing, drawing herself up taller with every passing moment.

When Adora was She Ra, she seemed impregnable, a proverbial fortress. As if nothing could hurt her, as if she were invincible. She certainly acted like it, like her skin was steel and her body stone.

Sometimes, Catra forgot that she wasn't. Sometimes she pushed too hard. Sometimes she failed to remember Adora was human, and could feel pain.

Panic. The thick palpable sort which Catra had familiarized herself with long ago. She leans down with a hiss, staring at her prone body. Her knee jutted in a funny way, and Catra struggles to keep down a wave of disgust, of horrified apprehension.

"This isn't funny Adora. Just wake up already, stop messing with my head"

Her nearly lifeless body does not answer. She does not move. She still looks broken, tiny. All Catra's doing.

She's defeated her, has really done it. She's toppled her from that godforsaken pedestal at long last.

Catra thought that seeing this, seeing her like this, weak and helpless like she had been, would make her feel better.

Instead Catra feels a sharp pain in her stomach, which she eventually equates to guilt. Ripping her apart from the inside out.

She felt horrible, and Adora's lack of movement was no soother.

Guilt turns slowly to anger, and she flops down on the ground with a furious (frustrated) huff. She's overwhelmed by how unfair the situation is. Adora had hurt her, had nearly ripped her heart out without a single qualm, and yet she could not bear to hurt her back.

After a moment, she smiles, self pityingly, ironically, and turns to the broken body of her ex-friend, ex-partner, newly minted enemy, with a wry grin.

"I'll never be rid of this, huh? Even when I beat you I still feel terrible"

A sigh. Her hand clenches, claws pricking, sliding into and puncturing skin, until blood welled.

"I guess you'll always exact control over me, huh? No matter what happens, what you do, I'll always be your fool" She laughs bitterly.

_Unfair. The world was cruel and unfair._

The words were accusatory, spat through clenched teeth, and almost begged for a response, a retort. Though Catra expected no such thing.

Instead, she lets the words bleed into the silence of the ambience. Does not wait for an answer that would not come.


	2. Cowards

Anger boiled just beneath the surface, crackling below her skin. The expanse of their battlefield, a backwater village somewhere beyond Dryll, was quite large. Littered with bodies. Fire. Destruction.

"I won't retreat" She shouts, over the turmoil of battle, the crash of cannons, the screams of outmaneuvered troops.

The fact that Grizzlor had even suggested such a thing was appalling. They were Horde, soldiers, warriors. They did not flee like cowards, and they certainly did not turn tail and run. No, quite frankly, Catra was insulted.

"That's an order, Force Captain Catra!" The General bellowed back, as he disengaged from a rebel troop, hardly holding his own against the blunt jabs of their scepter, annoyance sharp like barbed wire.

Catra sniffed with disdain, sidestepped one of the rebel operatives, barely managed to avoid a sword to the side.

They were losing. Grizzlor was willing to accept that.

Not when he had to report back to Hordak, tell him he had failed.

He always had been weak, squirrely. Grizzlor struggled to make tough decisions, to sacrifice. Catra did not.

They would not flee, like dogs, to lick their wounds. That meant admitting defeat. Admitting that the rebellion had outsmarted, out planned, outmanned them. Catra would not admit any such thing.

She kicks the rebel's legs from under them. Smiles in satisfaction, just barely dodges a well aimed blast of water from the princess with the pearl runestone.

They only had two tanks left. All but two of their squadrons had been captured, or killed.

Her legs are pounding against the cold dirt, heart crashing in her chest, as she rolls to avoid laser fire. Ducking, dodging, weaving, advancing further beyond enemy lines. The squadron to her left had just fallen, like twigs in a hailstorm, and those to her right hardly held their ground.

She hardly notices.

Her goal was clear. Mismatched eyes center on the glow of gilded gold, and her strides quicken. Claws tearing at the hard packed earth of that barren battlefield. Pushing her ever closer toward her, her enemy.

She ra.

Adora may have bested her before, but Catra would make certain she didn't again.

Catra would not lose to her again. Would not be second best.

Claws extended, ripping into smooth, glowing skin.


End file.
